Save the Date
by theSilverChef
Summary: A young, posh wedding planner is brutally murdered. The facts seem cut and dry until a tenacious blast from Mike Cutter's past threatens to jeopardize the case and his reputation. Mystery, jealousy, and a comedy of errors ensue. Eventually Mike/Connie
1. Something Borrowed, Something Blue

**_Disclaimer:_ **_**I do not own anyone or anything except for the original characters. Dick Wolf is the mastermind behind the characters that we know and love so well.**_

**_...  
><em>**

…_It's 7:30 am, and it's another spectacular day here in Manhattan…_

Mike Cutter's eyes shot open at the sound of an obnoxiously enthusiastic morning show host's voice blaring from his clock radio. He shifted resentfully in the warmth of his bed, pawing mindlessly at the racket coming from the nightstand. He successfully found the snooze button and rolled over. There was no hope of returning to his deep slumber, however. His Blackberry began chirping with e-mail and text message notifications. Ah, the curse of being competent. The big office and snazzy ties came with the price of zero personal space and little down time. He kicked his comforter to the floor and doddered to the bathroom in the residual haze of sleep, shoving his cell phone into the pocket of his loose flannel pajama bottoms.

In his tiled lair of tranquility, hot water splashed against his face and chest. Mike thought of his teeming schedule for the next ten hours—arraignment court followed by an evidentiary hearing; visits to Rikers and Bellevue; directing the usual Trial Advocacy class for the influx of Junior ADAs; and if he had time, maybe he would try to fit in a dinner break. Anticipating the stress, he massaged his tense neck. The muffled vibrations of his phone from a few feet away filtered through the vinyl curtains. There was that damned responsibility again, drawing him out into the icy air. Just once, he'd like to enjoy a shower for more than 5 minutes. Wrapping a towel firmly around his waist, he noted a missed call from Connie.

**...**

…_You have reached Michael Cutter. I am unavailable at the moment, but leave your number and-…_

Connie Rubirosa nudged open the front door to her building with her shoulder and began walking down Reade Street, composing a text. Her partner wasn't answering his phone, but being the thoughtful person that she was, she decided to give him one more chance to choose his breakfast. She rounded the corner to Hudson and again to Chambers, stepping into the warm interior of Zucker's Bagels. She staked a spot in the moderate queue and checked for Mike's reply. A crooked smile formed across her lips.

**You're a lifesaver. Anything without onions and the biggest coffee they have. Please/thanks.**

"Excuse me!" Startled, Connie looked up from her Blackberry screen. A tall, elegant woman with covetable café au lait skin brushed between her and another patron. Connie inspected the quality of the woman's clothing—a pristine, charcoal gray nubby tweed skirt suit accented with pearls, seamed stockings, and expensive stilettos—and lamented that she could not afford to dress with such flair and opulence. Her only splurge was an out-of-season Coach purse that was still in its box and the occasional trip to the Tribeca Beauty Spa. Ah, the curse of being on a civil servant's budget.

**...**

"Excuse me!" Jacinda Chambers pushed through the line at Zucker's, moving toward the door. She was a woman on a mission, who was on the verge of being late. Ah, the curse of being an event planner to the affluent population of Manhattan. Life revolved around appointments and dates, weddings and parties, capital and luxury. It wasn't even eight in the morning yet, and she was already on her second phone consultation. Chatting loudly into the Bluetooth device that was lodged into her ear, she ignored cyclists and fellow pedestrians as she strutted past Washington Market Park. A cardboard drink carrier, brimming with paper coffee cups, wobbled dangerously in her grip. She tucked her portfolios under her arm and dug her phone out of her designer tote. "Listen, Dominique, I'm going to have to call you back. Actually, why don't you just bring Anita up to my office this afternoon? Yes, that would be perfect. Okay. Okay. Uh-huh. Bye."

The uproar of frenzied shouts and screeching tires drew her attention away from her PDA-in-hand. A dark blue sedan was driving full speed toward her.

**...**

Detective Kevin Bernard stepped gingerly over the scattered array of books, empty coffee cups, and pieces of scaffolding that lined the sidewalk of Greenwich Street. His partner, Cyrus Lupo, was crouched next to the grotesquely contorted body that had stained the brick façade of an empty office building a deep, crimson red. Most people started their day with a morning jog or a staff meeting. He, on the other hand, had learned to expect criminals and cadavers. Ah, the curse of being a Homicide detective. "What have we got?"

"Jacinda Chambers, 27," Lupo announced, holding up a driver's license. "Cause of death-…"

"…Is pretty damn obvious. Please tell me someone got a plate number?"

"I'll do you one better." Connie's heeled boots scraped against the pavement as she eagerly joined the detectives. Her cheeks were red, lashed by the harsh morning wind. "According to the first responding officer, several witnesses said that the car came from _that_ direction."

"From that parking garage over there?" Lupo stood and peeled the latex gloves from his hands.

Bernard shot her a what-are-you-doing-here look, and she quickly explained, "I was in the neighborhood… and be glad that I was. I put in a call to Icon Parking headquarters—you'll have the surveillance tapes by lunch time."

"Look at you… Detective Rubirosa. It has a nice ring to it," Bernard smirked and gave Connie's elbow a good-natured nudge.

"I don't think so," she rolled her eyes, smiling reservedly. "I've got to get to the office. Call me when you've got the tapes."

**...**


	2. Here comes the past?

**...**

Late afternoon at the 27th precinct was quiet and uneventful, furnished with the usual sounds of ringing phones, opening and closing filing cabinets, and clacking keyboards. Leaning back in his dated leather chair, Detective Lupo crunched loudly on his dinner: a paltry bag of potato chips.

"Hey, B—what's your take?" He nodded toward the Squad Commander's office where Captain Harvey Reischer was having an animated conversation with someone on speakerphone. It was a comical image: flailing arms and exaggerated laughter, but no sound. A couple weeks after her fundraiser party, Anita Van Buren had announced that proceeding 17 years as leader of the 2-7 and over 30 years on the force, she was retiring to spend time with her family. Cancer and its subsequent remission had given her a new perspective on life and its merit.

Captain Reischer was a decorated officer, having experience with the Organized Crime, Vice, and Aviation squads. However, his two-year stint in the Movie/Television unit had earned him the nickname of Harvey Hollywood. His nomination to take over the home of the Robbery/Homicide squad was certainly a bone of contention.

Detective Bernard twisted in his chair to glance at Reischer, and then looked back at his partner. "How does someone go from the _real _world of gangsters and criminal enterprises to conducting traffic on the sets of make-believe ones? I mean, who did he piss off?"

Lupo shrugged and shook his head in disagreement. "I have a couple friends in OC, and it's no walk in the park. There are certain things that you can't un-see. Maybe this guy was just looking for a change of venue."

"Are we still talking about the Captain, here? You aren't getting burnt out are you, Lupes?"

"No… But, sometimes you need a break. Maybe this guy is just smarter than the rest of us. That's all I'm saying. Although… It would be nice to be able to settle down. Speaking of which, here," Lupo tossed his half-eaten bag of potato chips to his partner and wiped his grease-laden fingers against his dark brown trousers. "I've gotta drop a few pounds for Loo's wedding."

"Oh, so you give the contraband to the fat kid, because he'll eat it, right?" Bernard arched his brow.

A duplicitous smirk materialized beneath Lupo's four o'clock stubble. "If you're going to play the discrimination card, you should probably take your hand out of the bag."

Connie shuffled into the precinct, silently greeting the duo with a nod. A barely discernible sheen of sweat across her chest and forehead reflected the muggy August day outside. "Did you get my message?"

"Good news first, please," Lupo referred to her enthusiastic yet enigmatic voicemail from two hours before.

She perched herself on the edge of Bernard's desk and brandished a piece of paper. "The names and addresses of Jacinda Chambers' clients."

"What's the bad news?" Lupo seized the list. Connie pointed at the second name, sighing sadly. "Anita Van Buren… I don't-… I don't understand. I thought that this gal caters to celebrities and socialites. Loo's got a decent pension, but it's nowhere _near_ Chambers' usual asking price."

"I thought it was odd, too. _So_, I dug a little deeper and it turns out that Anita's fiancé Frank has a daughter, Dominique, who's known Jacinda since they were in 2nd grade. She took on the wedding almost pro bono."

Bernard studied her incredulously. "Where do you find the _time_?"

Connie shifted nonchalantly. "Some people eat lunch, and some people follow leads."

"How'd Loo handle the news?" Lupo steered the conversation back to the case.

"She wasn't exactly a fan of the idea of a big, elaborate affair, but she's pretty shaken up about this whole thing. Did you guys get the security tapes?"

"I would've called you sooner, but I was eating lunch," Bernard responded sarcastically. He turned his laptop to face her and tapped the spacebar. A grainy video of the exiting gate at the parking structure on Greenwich played at an accelerated pace. Connie leaned closer and saw the garbled image of a dark-colored sedan speeding through the tunnel toward the street. "Great! I'm assuming that you already ran the plate number?"

The detectives exchanged a hesitant glance, and Connie picked up on the trepidation. "But, there's a problem? Of course there's a problem." She groaned. "Let me guess: the car was stolen?"

"No, that would actually be the least of our misfortunes." Lupo handed her a print out from the Department of Motor Vehicles. "The Mercedes is registered to an Audrey Webb, the daughter of Sherman Webb Jr., the former Senator. Webb was a major contributor to Jack McCoy's campaign, and on top of that, he's currently out of the country. We figured it was best to devise a legal strategy before we head out to the Hamptons without a warrant."

Connie frowned.

"We're just covering all of our bases, so there's nothing for Cutter to-…"

"Oh, no, I'm not worried about that. It's just… Audrey Webb. That name sounds familiar." She slid the client list toward her, and her eyes brightened with comprehension. "Save the date, boys. Audrey's getting married this weekend."

"From Shelter Island to Rikers Island—maybe the guests won't notice the difference," Bernard quipped, opening his web browser to find a route to the Senator's house in East Hampton.

Connie fished her phone from her bag. "I'll have Mike get us a warrant."

* * *

><p><em>Next day…<em>

Lupo and Bernard had agreed to pick Connie up from the DA's office early that morning so that she could offer some leverage in the event that the Senator had any qualms about the investigation. Jack McCoy felt that his presence would be beneficial, and at some point, Mike Cutter invited himself along, as well. The ride to East Hampton in the maroon Town Car was crowded and stuffy, and the mood was hushed and rather sober. Detective Bernard drove, chatting comfortably with Jack in the front. In the back, however, Connie was wedged between Cyrus and Mike, who were quietly debating the superiority of various sports teams. She was not entirely sure why, but it made her jealous. She hadn't really thought about it until that moment, but it was the first time in a week that she had seen Mike for more than 5 minutes. Why wasn't he talking to _her_?

The tinny ring of a cell phone plucked her from her musings. Lupo answered his call, and Mike turned his attention to his own Blackberry. Connie cleared her throat and nudged his shoulder. "I thought you had another class this morning."

"I pawned it off to Carver. He owed me a favor." Mike set his phone on his lap and smiled apologetically. "Hi, how are you?"

"Oh, so _now_ you want to talk? I'm no sloppy seconds, Cutter."

"How do you know I wasn't saving the best for last?"

Connie rolled her eyes, stifling a grin. Lupo's gruff voice interrupted the intimate exchange. "The Senator's plane just landed at JFK. The Captain sent out a couple of patrol cars in case we ruffle some feathers. They're about 30 minutes behind us."

"Backup?" Jack echoed. "We're going to the Hamptons, not North Korea."

**...**

An hour later, they were turning onto a private road. The car came to a halt several yards from a sprawling, shingled estate, surrounded by uniformly manicured hedges. A cool breeze from the Atlantic sent a chill down Connie's spine as she walked up the gravel driveway toward the ivy-covered porte cochère. Bernard gestured to the detached carriage house off to the right of the home, where an open door revealed a Mercedes with a damaged bumper. "I guess money doesn't buy you the brains to ditch the murder weapon."

Standing under the white stone portico, Connie shivered visibly, and Mike thought of giving her his suit jacket. As flattering as her thin turquoise sweater was, it was highly impractical. She met his concerned gaze and self-consciously muttered, "What?"

The front door opened, and a short, middle-aged woman in a traditional maid's garb stood in the foyer. She spoke with a heavy accent. "Yes, can I help you?"

"Good morning," Detective Lupo flashed his badge and peered into the entryway behind her. "We're looking for Audrey Webb. Is she here?"

"No, Ms. Audrey is not here. You are from the police?"

A voice echoed from inside the home. "Elba? Who is it?" An older, very prim woman with shoulder length silver hair appeared at the base of the stairwell. She approached the door and motioned for Elba to leave. "I'm Celeste Webb. What's this about?"

Bernard pulled a neatly folded search warrant from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to Mrs. Webb. "Your daughter's vehicle was involved in a homicide in Manhattan yesterday morning. We need to take a look around."

"There's been some kind of mistake," the color drained from Celeste's face. "James, Audrey's fiancé, took the car out to the Pridwin—that's the wedding venue. It was quite windy yesterday! He said a tree branch fell and-…"

"Mrs. Webb," Connie intervened, "We have surveillance video that places Audrey's car in Tribeca at the time of the murder."

Celeste nodded grimly and beckoned them into the house. Lupo and Bernard headed out to the garage to take a look at the Mercedes, while Jack, Mike, and Connie followed Celeste into the living room. "Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink?"

The trio politely declined, and Connie scrutinized the ornate décor, wholly disinterested in Mrs. Webb's woe-is-me story. She noted the housekeeper's troubled demeanor and trailed her down the hallway into the kitchen. "Elba, is everything okay?"

"Yes. Everything is fine," Elba began wiping down the visibly clean surface of the granite island.

"Is there something you would like to tell me?"

"No…"

Connie chewed her lip and gently moved closer. Her brows furrowed with empathy. "La obstrucción de la justicia es un delito grave. Si sabes algo y no nos informa, irá a la cárcel."

Elba tensed with fear, and Connie continued, "But, if you know something and you _tell_ me, I _promise_ you that you will not be in any danger of losing your job or your family."

A few moments later, Connie returned to the drawing room, a triumphant gleam in her eye. Mike rose from the sofa and met her near the window. From afar, their silhouettes against the sunlight told an interesting tale. Her arms were folded across her chest, formal and guarded. His posture was casual, inclined toward her, and his eyes followed every movement of her lips, cheeks, nose, and brows. She quietly relayed her conversation with the housekeeper. "Elba found Jacinda and James in the pool house a couple of months ago working on more than just a seating chart, if you catch my drift. James told her to keep her mouth shut, or he'd have her deported. Of course, she's here legally, so he had no grounds… but it was enough to scare her."

"So, James and Jacinda were having an affair—why would he kill her?"

"Maybe he was worried about her ratting him out?"

"Why not pay her off?"

"True. What about Audrey, though? A woman scorned is a pretty powerful motive."

"It's a possibility," Mike shrugged, gazing out the window at the glistening pool. "I'll have Lupo and Bernard pick up this James guy. But first, we need to find Audrey Webb."

The doorbell chimed in the distance, and Elba passed meekly through the parlor to greet yet another visitor. She reappeared quickly with an unexpected guest in tow. The woman's gorgeous tawny hair and alabaster skin was abrogated by the obnoxiously pretentious tone to her British accent. Connie watched the interchange between Celeste and the new arrival with disgust. She turned to Mike to make a comment, only to be surprised by the deer-in-headlights look on his face. "What? What is it?"

A snobbish and syrupy voice screeched, "I don't believe it. _Mi_-chael Cutter! What on _Earth_ are you doing here?"

Connie had her answer. This stranger wasn't a stranger at all.


	3. Oh what a tangled Webb we weave!

_**AN:**__ June, this one's for you :-D _

_**Here's what you missed: **Jacinda Chambers was murdered in Tribeca. The evidence points to the daughter of a former Senator who lives in the Hamptons. Our favorite crime quartet (and Jack McCoy) heads out to the home to investigate. Things get a little awkward, however, with the arrival of a woman who seems to be well acquainted with Mike. Who is this mysterious visitor?  
><em>

**...**

The blonde woman glided toward Mike and encompassed his hands with her own delicate, manicured fingers. "Michael, it is absolutely wonderful to see you!"

"Hello, Annie…" Mike made a subtle, swift retreat from the woman's embrace, growing rigid and reserved. He noticed Connie's puzzled expression. "Connie, this is Ann-… Bianca Peters. Bianca, this is Consuela Rubirosa, my colleague."

They exchanged clipped smiles and mumbled pleasantries. If Connie's hunch was correct, this was the same Bianca Peters that had earned a reputation as a ruthless, dogged, and formidable reporter. She had exposed the seedy underworld activities of several prominent figures, from celebrities to politicians. Connie had nothing against her, but it could be expected that no good could come from such a tenacious investigative presence.

Jack rose from the couch, irritated by the blatant lack of regard for the gravitas in the room. Mrs. Webb stammered, wringing her handkerchief. "Mr. McCoy, Bianca is from the _Ledger_. She is writing an exposé on my husband's charity work in the Sudan."

Bianca snapped her head in Jack's direction. "Mr. McCoy? _The _Jack McCoy?"

"Something like that," he dismissed her attempt at amity. "Mrs. Webb, I suggest that you reschedule your interview. This is a delicate matter, and I trust that my detectives will not appreciate any interferences with their investigation."

"Right… Perhaps this _isn't_ the best time."

"Detectives?" Bianca arched her brow, visibly enticed by the idea of an exclusive story, and even more so, the thought of a scandal. "What brings Manhattan's finest all the way out here?"

"That's really none of your business-…" Connie chimed in with a shade of spite in her tone, only to have Mike derail her train of thought.

"…-May I have a word with you? In private?" Mike placed his hand on Bianca's back and guided her toward the front entryway.

Taking the flagrant subversion to heart, Connie turned to Jack for vindication of her reaction. He was just as shocked, his thick brows hovering ominously above his glowering eyes. Lupo and Bernard materialized through the French doors off of the living room, extinguishing the smoke and cinders of an imminent eruption. They announced the arrival of the uniforms and CSU technicians.

Bernard held up an inhaler in his gloved hand. "Mrs. Webb, does Audrey have asthma?"

"No…" Celeste crumpled into the plush cushions of the sofa. "James does."

Bernard pointed to a framed photograph on the mantle above the fireplace. "Is this him?"

"Yes," Celeste sniveled into her embroidered cloth.

"Where is your daughter, now?" Lupo prodded.

"In the City. She had a final dress fitting before the wedding," she sobbed. "James went with her."

Lupo gave Bernard a knowing look. "I'll call the Captain and get an A.P.B. out."

Mike returned to the sitting room with an air of complacent satisfaction. The distant echo of a closing door signaled that he had successfully jettisoned the ill-timed guest. Connie was well aware that Mike was an intelligent and attractive man, ergo it was safe to assume that he had never been denied the company of the opposite sex. That had always been out of sight, though, and therefore out of mind. But, sadly, when you live in denial (intentionally or not) there is always a moment where reality will spoil perception. This was that moment. The moment where she realized Mike held some sort of power over this Bianca Peters woman, a power that presumably stemmed from a past consummation of attraction. It was iconoclasm in its purest sense, and she felt the febrile emergence of the notorious green-eyed monster.

* * *

><p><em>Later that afternoon…<em>

Connie knocked and hesitantly strolled into Mike's office. He was anxiously pacing the carpet, capping and uncapping a black dry erase marker. His shirt collar was undone, as were his cuffs, and he was clearly deep in thought. She took a moment to admire him in his solitude, feeling akin to zoologist observing an elusive beast in its natural habitat. She cleared her throat and asked, "Is this a bad time?"

"No, of course not." He shook his head and sat on the round table at the center of the room. "I was just going over my closing arguments for tomorrow."

"You're not nervous are you?"

"Nah, we've got Calderon in the bag. Did you make any headway on the Leiber motion?"

Connie handed him a yellow legal pad, congested with neatly penned paragraphs of carefully cited arguments. He scanned the first page and frowned. "_People v. Hatzfeld_? Is that the best we've got?"

"I know what you're thinking—it's a weak precedent. Just hear me out, though! The ruling is straightforward: any reasonable person would have known that the police's initial questioning was solely investigatory, _not_ accusatory. Any statements made were voluntary and self-incriminating, constituting an admissible confession. Swap Leiber for Hatzfeld, and I think we can wing it."

"You're forgetting one thing—the questionable search. Detective Lupo manipulated a borderline senile woman into letting him into Scott Leiber's apartment. The judge will never go for it," Mike set the notepad beside him on the table and folded his arms across his chest.

"You say manipulation; I say good faith."

Mike smirked. "If we relied on sheer confidence to win cases, you'd have the best conviction rate in the state."

"Yeah, well, I'm not feeling so hot about the Webb case." Connie seized the marker from him and walked to the whiteboard. "James Northam and Jacinda Chambers were having an affair. Jacinda gets the ax, and everything in the car points to James, but Audrey Webb—" Connie drew a circle to connect the initials and abbreviations—"has the biggest motive. _Unfortunately_, she's lawyered up to the hilt, and James is M.I.A., leaving us S.O.L. at the moment."

Mike moved to her side, brushing her shoulder, and reclaimed the marker. He scribbled a few words next to her diagram. "Have the detectives confirmed whether or not James was actually at the Pridwin? That's the story he told Celeste Webb."

"Well, here's the thing," Connie sighed, yanking the pen from his grip. "According to Lupo, James would had to have left the Webbs before 6 am in order to correspond with a 7:54 time of death for Jacinda. _But_, Audrey was in Manhattan on Tuesday night for her bachelorette party. Mrs. Webb gave a statement saying that Audrey arrived home around 1:30 am, but she only _heard_ her daughter. She didn't actually see her, nor did she bother to check to the garage to confirm whether or not the Mercedes was there."

Mike ran a hand through his hair. "She wouldn't have had a reason to check for the car, though, other than the fact that James was going to borrow it… which, by the way, strikes me as odd. We're supposed to believe that a 26-year-old Yale graduate doesn't have his own vehicle?"

Connie nodded, her demure earrings dangling in the dim lamplight. "Exactly. The DMV shows an SUV registered to James. On top of that, Bernard took a look at Mrs. Webb's cell phone records. There was a call made at 8:15 am from Audrey's phone to her mother's."

"If Audrey was home, why would she call her mother? It's arguable that wealth can generate sloth, but not to such an extreme." He stroked his chin pensively. "Celeste Webb didn't tell the detectives about the call?"

"No. She didn't mention any communication with Audrey, whatsoever. I'm thinking that Audrey never went home. We just have to prove that _she _was the one in Tribeca yesterday morning."

"_Or_, we'll go from one prime suspect to two," Mike suggested gloomily, moving to his desk and pushing the chair with his foot. It spun precariously at the contact. "Maybe even three—it seems like Mrs. Webb isn't above obfuscating."

Connie scowled at his petulance. With his hands shoved into his pockets and shoe-gazing demeanor, he resembled a kid who had just lost a ball to a forbidden yard. "What's with the defeatist attitude? You should be glad that we have _something _rather than nothing."

He relaxed his shoulders. "This case… It puts us in an extremely fragile and unfavorable situation. There's a lot at stake here—if we make one wrong move, we'll be chewing leather, Connie. Senator Webb was one of the few people that took a chance on Jack when no one else would. We can't mess this up for him."

There was underlying anxiety to his words that gave Connie the feeling that he was not being entirely forthcoming. "Is that what this is really about?"

"What?" His head shot up, eyes growing narrow with uncertainty and minor displeasure at her insinuation.

She exhaled deeply, hoping he would have the inclination to discuss the issue at hand as adults. "Ever since this morning, when you talked to Ms. Peters, you've been on edge. As your partner, I think it's only fair that you level with me."

"If you're asking me how I got Bianca to leave without putting up a fight, I told her that Jack would be releasing a statement to the press tomorrow. Nothing more. And, if you're actually implying that I would sabotage a potential case by leaking information to satiate the journalistic itch of an ex-…" He trailed off, placing his fist against his forehead. "Look, maybe this _is_ a bad time. I'm sorry."

To an outsider, Mike's misguided melodrama would have been unpleasant and aggravating. But, Connie shrugged it off and extended an olive branch. "You know, I think Jack's still got that whiskey in his drawer. Or, we could head to Maxwell's after work. Either way, I think that you need a drink."

Mike's expression softened, appreciative of her willingness to drop the sore subject. He was grateful that she had neither pressed him further nor stormed out of the office. They had undeniably found their niche in their working relationship, a place of tolerance, empathy, and understanding. Their alliance had grown infrangible. He slumped into his chair and proclaimed, "That's the best damn idea I've heard all day."

* * *

><p><strong>...<strong>

"Okay, hit me with your best shot." Connie set her beer down on the bar, and shifted on her stool so that she was facing Mike. He hid a smile with his shot glass, eagerly swallowing the burning liquor and shaking his head ardently. "You can't tell me a story like that, and the not give me _proof_. I'm an ADA, remember? I need evidence. C'mon, give me your best line."

Mike rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright." He adopted a serious expression, and then cocked his left brow. "'Excuse me, but I think you owe me a drink. See, I dropped mine.'"

Connie played along. "How's that _my _fault?"

"'Well, I was looking at you and tripped over a chair.'"

She burst into laughter. "Not bad, Mike. Better than 'Do you have a Band-aid? I just scraped my knee falling for you.'"

She took another sip of her drink and noticed him gazing at her intently. "What?"

He leaned in closer and softly remarked, "'I'm so completely and utterly mesmerized by you that I forgot my terrible pick-up line.'"

Connie's breath caught in her throat briefly before she plunged back to reality. She laughed nervously, hoping to disguise the flush on her cheeks. "Wow, you're good. Is there anything Mike Cutter _can't _do?"

He paused, apparently searching his thoughts for an answer to her rhetorical question. "Knitting."

She grinned, fishing her chirping Blackberry from her purse. Her amusement faded to a frown as she read the screen. "It's Lupo. James Northam was just nabbed for public indecency at a bar in Chelsea…"

"Bachelor party gone awry?" Mike quipped.

"A gay bar," she added.

His jaw slackened with bewilderment. "Why can't we ever catch a simple case? Something cut and dry?"

"Is there such a thing?" Connie smirked and procured her wallet. "Come on, let's go."


	4. Speak Your Piece

**...**

James Northam was a slender man with well-tailored hair, defined cheekbones, and crisp, clean clothing. He sat patiently in the chair in the interrogation room, hands folded neatly on the table in front of him. He was the quintessential image of status, class, and an Ivy League education. However, a slowly drying trail of blood stemming from his swollen bottom lip told a different story. Upon closer inspection, a tinge of violet was beginning to spread across the skin under his left eye. The door opened, and Detectives Lupo and Bernard appeared. They each pulled out a chair and the metal legs scraped loudly against the floor. James studied them coolly.

"So," Bernard began, "my partner and I, we're a little confused. We can't seem to figure out why on Earth you would kill your wedding planner four days before you were scheduled to say 'I do.'"

"Now wait a minute, B," Lupo joined in, his tone thick with sarcasm. "We're only assuming that James is the murderer. We found his inhaler in the car, but that doesn't make him guilty."

"No, Lupes, I think we're on to something here. The housekeeper said that he and Jacinda were having an affair. Maybe Jacinda decided to spill the beans—maybe there was some money involved—and Romeo here didn't want his fiancée to find out."

"Are we on the right track, James? If we're way off base, feel free to let us know."

James smiled eerily and shifted in his seat, slinging an arm over the back of the chair. "Either you're bluffing or that nosey wetback is lying. Jackie wasn't exactly my type, if you catch my drift."

Angered by the racist comment, Bernard stood and leaned closer to the arrogant suspect. "Because she's black, or because you've got a secret?"

"How did your fiancée feel about your affinity for the bathroom at Barracuda?" Lupo snapped.

James shook his head, frowning in a comical and exaggerated manner. "You know, in our circle of delusional socialites and sycophants, I'm Audrey's _eccentric_ fiancé—her sophisticated and _refined_ fiancé. It's 2010, but I'm still supposed to hide away in the closet... A walk-in closet full of skeletons."

"You can wax philosophical later, Howard Hughes. Why don't you tell us where you were Wednesday morning and how _this _car," Lupo slid a photo of the damaged Mercedes across the table, "got _that _dent?"

"And then," Bernard continued, hovering menacingly over James, "you're going to tell us every last detail about where you've been for the past 48 hours—and I mean everything. I want to know what you ate for lunch and how many times you stopped to take a piss. A woman is _dead_, James, and if you don't start talking, I'm going to see to it that you take a trip to _our_ closet; it's called Central Booking."

James leered, calmly taping his fingers against the table. "Alright, I'll play along. Gee, I'm sorry, I don't know how Audrey's car ended up with a dent. Maybe she hit something."

Lupo's patience was running thin. James' sadistic humor was not amusing at all. "Celeste Webb told us that you borrowed the car to take care of some business at the wedding venue. Manhattan is a long way from Shelter Island."

"Celeste is lying… She's just trying to protect me."

"And why would she do that?"

"Because to her, I'm a saint. I'm the only one who's willing to play house and marry her harpy of a daughter. The truth is, Detectives, I've been in Manhattan since Monday night. I'm staying with my boyfriend, Richard."

Lupo and Bernard exchanged perplexed looks. "Are you saying that you have some sort of arrangement with the Webbs?"

"You see, little Audrey has always been…problematic." James emphasized his words with irreverence, stifling laughter and anxiously tapping his foot. "She's been to rehab several times for her nasty cocaine habit under the guise of 'boarding school' and 'Swedish spa retreat.' Whatever excuse they could come up with. She's an embarrassment to that family, and they practically begged me to take her off of their hands. Imagine how awful it would look if good ol' Sherman was writing checks to D.A.R.E., while Audrey's getting her stomach pumped at Mercy General. It would be an absolute press circus, followed by career homicide. _So,_ they found a nice young man from a respectable family to clean up the mess. It's a win-win situation, Detectives. The Webbs keep their reputation; I get a ridiculously sinful prenupt and a six-figure paycheck. If anything, Jackie's death has put quite the damper on my salary."

Outside the interrogation room, Connie and Captain Reischer raptly observed the interview. Mike stood quietly in the background, hardly masking his disappointment. "If Lupo and Bernard can corroborate James' story, he's off the suspect list. _But_, don't have enough to charge Audrey Webb with murder, not even by a long shot."

"James said that Celeste was trying to protect him," Connie recalled. "His prints are all over the car, and his inhaler was found under the driver's seat. It's enough to charge him with Vehicular Manslaughter. Maybe it will be enough to get Celeste to crack and give us something on Audrey."

Mike moved toward the window, his face contorted with concentration. "Celeste may be at her wit's end, but what about her husband? I doubt he'll cooperate; he'll be too worried about his image. We'll break down one door only to have another slammed in our face."

Captain Reischer folded his arms across his chest. "I agree with Ms. Rubirosa. If James is telling the truth, then he would be a fool to jeopardize his payout. He's conniving and enterprising, but he's not a killer."

Mike hesitated for a moment, searching Connie for reassurance. She stood confidently, her eyes pleading with him to trust her instinct. "Okay. Vehicular Manslaughter. Can we draw up the indictment before the 48 hour mark?"

Connie was already heading for the door. "I'm on it. I'll have him arraigned by tomorrow afternoon."

* * *

><p><strong>...<strong>

"How do you plea, Mr. Northam?" The Honorable Judge John Laramie sat equably in his seat at the bench, flipping through the pages of his calendar.

"Not guilty, your Honor." James' eye was now a deep purple, a undeniable contrast to his pallid and tired complexion.

Judge Laramie briefly glanced up toward the gallery. "Ms. Rubirosa?"

"Your Honor, the People request Remand. The defendant plowed through a crowded city street in broad daylight, destroying property and putting innocent bystanders in danger. His actions resulted in the death of a woman who we have reason to believe was a former lover. He evaded the police for two days after the incident, lied about his activities and affiliations, not to mention that his inhaler was found inside the vehicle-..."

"Your Honor, the only evidence the People have against my client is an inhaler, which is only _one _of the _three _inhalers that he has in his possession. My client has no prior infractions, comes from a prominent family, and has significant ties to the community and obligations to several proprietary and non-profit organizations. There is no proof that Mr. Northam had engaged in any sort of relationship with the deceased other than the hearsay testimony of a housekeeper." Elizabeth Sanders glared across the well at Connie, earning no reaction in kind. Connie knew that Sanders' bark was worse than her bite. She and Mike had this one in the bag.

"I agree. Frankly, Ms. Rubirosa, I'm surprised that the People are proceeding with this indictment. It must be a slow week for you folks... Bail is set at $2 million." _Clack! _

Judge Laramie's response came as a surprise, and Connie could hardly conceal her displeasure. She regained composure, realizing that her jaw was actually hanging open. A seething heat rose in her stomach, chest, and cheeks, and she shoved her files into her briefcase. She didn't know which was worse: the thought that James Northam might go free or the thought of Mike's face after she tells him that her plan backfired.

The walk back to the DA's office was a blur. Connie was deeply entrenched in her thoughts, thinking of all possible scenarios. It was the curse of her Astrological Sign—at least that's what she told herself. The mind of a Gemini never rests, ticking and calculating endlessly, a constant cycle of overdrive, worry, and innovation. She trudged toward her desk and unloaded her things, rubbing her forehead in frustration. Instinctively, she walked toward Mike's office, only to find that his door was closed, and he was not alone. He sat perched on his desk talking to someone that was out of Connie's line of vision. She stepped closer and felt her breath swallowed by a treacherous pit in her stomach. Bianca Peters was lounging casually in a chair at Mike's roundtable.

Connie returned to her workstation in a robotic haze, slumping into her black leather seat. Her hands were clammy and her heart was pounding, an involuntary reaction that she neither condoned nor enjoyed. She pressed the power button on her computer monitor, waking up the screen, and pretended to be unconcerned with the conversation beyond the door a few feet away. She wasn't unconcerned, though. She was… _annoyed_. There was so much work to be done, and Mike was cavorting in his office with an old flame. Even worse, the old flame was a reporter, someone that could easily compromise a case. What was going on with him? What was he thinking? Was it some sort of midlife crisis? She shook her head and cleared her throat, focusing intently on the screen in front of her. No. She was not going to go down _that _road again. She wasn't his keeper or guardian. He was a big boy. He could handle himself. She just had to trust him the same way she expected him to trust her.

The door swung open, and Bianca emerged with a beaming smile. Mike followed closely behind. Connie gave a slim, half-hearted smile as Bianca passed her desk. She perused through her email, not bothering to acknowledge that Mike had parked himself in the chair adjacent to her. She wasn't going to ask, and she didn't want him to tell. He stole a piece of candy from the jar on the desk and unwrapped it noisily. "How'd it go?"

"Not good," Connie sighed. "Bail's set at $2 million."

She expected Mike to launch into a diatribe, but instead he shrugged, popping the butterscotch lozenge into his mouth. "So we'll find another way, Connie. Call Lupo and Bernard—see if they can stall the Webbs before James posts bail. Maybe we've still got a chance at Celeste."

Connie furrowed her brow, picking up the phone receiver and dialing the 27th Precinct. "Someone's in a good mood. It wouldn't have anything to do with a visit from Ms. Peters would it?"

Mike smirked mischievously. "No—I'm just glad you're back. It was a little lonely in trial without you this morning."

In slight disbelief, Connie allowed his words to sink in as he got up and returned to his office. The sound of an irritated voice snapped her back to reality. -_Hello? Hel-lo?- _Oops. How long had she been zoned out? "Um… yes… Detective Lupo, please."

**...**


	5. Something Old, Something New

_**AN: **_It's taken me a while to update, so I've included a nice recap for you. Thanks again for all of the reviews! I truly appreciate every single one of them! I would like to dedicate this chapter to June, for her inspiration; to Amy, for reading even though she 'ships Lupirosa; to Abby, for being my ET; _and_ to Potatoes, for keeping it real.

_**Here's What You Missed: **_ A woman from Mike's past, who has yet to reveal her intentions or just what sort of place she hold's in his history, proves to be a bone of contention for our favorite DANY duo. Meanwhile, on the crime front, Audrey Webb's fiancé is arrested for Jacinda's murder in hopes to catch the _real _culprit. The problem is that no one is entirely sure who the _real _culprit is.

**...**

The Stella Dining Room at Le Cirque was crowded with men and woman dressed to the nines at 3:30 in the afternoon. Tuxedos, coiffed hair drenched in ozone-depleting hairspray, and portrait collared gowns occupied the elegantly draped tables and chairs. Sleepy piano music and the tinker of cocktail glasses chimed in harmony. Celeste Webb stood near the door, attempting to preserve the discretion of her conversation with the detectives from the 27th precinct.

"This _really _is not a good time. I already told you what I know," she proclaimed in a singsong and snobby manner.

"You can drop the charade, Mrs. Webb. Audrey called you Wednesday morning," Lupo antagonized. "We have the phone records to prove it."

Bernard brandished a copy of a call log. "We also know about your twisted little arrangement with James Northam."

"I have to say, it's a little odd that you weren't at his arraignment, though—according to him, you're his number one fan. Maybe he's covering for you?" Lupo's gaze made her shift uncomfortably. "Maybe Jacinda found out that the wedding was a sham and threatened to expose your scheme. So you decided to use any means necessary to make sure nothing got in the way of your plans. But I bet you didn't expect James to take the fall for it, did you?"

Bernard flashed a small, cynical smile. "Is that how you operate, Mrs. Webb? You connive and strong-arm your way through society until you get what you want? And then, when something goes wrong, you conveniently wash your hands of the situation…"

"No! That is _not _what happened." Celeste pursed her lips, visibly unaccustomed to being treated in the same regard as a suspect. She guided the detectives out to the corridor for more privacy. "How _dare_ you accuse me of such terrible crimes, and in such a public forum? Have some _respect_. My family's personal affairs are _none _of your business."

"They become our business," Bernard snapped, "when someone gets killed because of your dirty laundry. I'm no lawyer, but my advice to you is to start telling the truth or you'll be facing a hefty sentence for obstruction of justice and hindering prosecution."

"This conversation is finished," Celeste asserted firmly. "If you have any further questions—which I'm most certain that you meddling boors will—you are welcome to contact my lawyer."

She paused briefly to regain composure before returning to the luncheon. The easel outside the door held a sign, welcoming guests to a benefit for the New York City Citizen's Crime Commission. _**Stop the Violence!**_ Lupo and Bernard exchanged amused glances.

"It's always the ones that preach the loudest that you gotta watch out for…"

"Amen to that," Lupo smirked, reading the text message he had just received. "Hey, B, it's the Captain. Someone just showed up at the precinct claiming they witnessed the murder."

"Two days later?" Something didn't sit right.

Lupo shrugged. "Let's find out."

**…**

Martha Muñiz was sitting timidly in Captain Reischer's office when Lupo and Bernard arrived back at the 2-7. She was young, in her late teens or early twenties, and judging by her clothes and messenger bag, it could be inferred that she was a struggling college student. Lupo tossed his green corduroy jacket onto his desk and met the Captain outside of his office.

"She came in about 45 minutes ago," Harvey explained, sipping stale black coffee out of a blue NYPD mug. "She said that she works at a dry-cleaners across the street from the parking garage, half a block from the crime scene. Her story checks out—she was working the morning of the murder."

"Did she see who was driving the car?" Bernard joined the huddle, popping open a can of soda.

"She gave a description of a female that's a match for Audrey Webb. We've got an ID and her paw prints in the car, but no motive. Call the DA's office and see if it's enough to make the charges stick-…" Harvey trailed off, distracted by a presence in the distance.

Lupo and Bernard turned to see Jack McCoy standing ominously at the entrance of the squad room. A tall, graying man was at his side, holding a thick leather-bound folder. Senator Webb slowly inched closer and handed the binder to Captain Reischer. With immense sorrow in his tone, he explained, "I found this hidden among Audrey's wedding things. Please, Detectives, my daughter… she needs help. I cannot protect her any longer."

Harvey opened the folder. Pages of notes, pictures, and fabric samples had been shredded and vandalized with messages of hate. A clipping of a Manhattan lifestyle magazine feature about Jacinda fluttered to the floor, and Bernard picked it up. He read the blaring inscription. "'Die, whore. Thief. Fake bitch. I will smash you.' Call me crazy, Captain, but I think that qualifies as motive."

…

Audrey was arrested on Friday afternoon, and after the convening of a Grand Jury, she was formally indicted on Monday. The arraignment took place first thing Tuesday morning, and it was no easy feat. The Webbs had hired one of the best defense lawyers in the country, Eleanor Harper.

In the wake of the aftermath, Connie meandered into Mike's office, completely bypassing her own desk. It was a habit she'd formed over the time they'd been working together. Mike was lounging on his couch, reading a copy of the Sports page. Connie tugged the baseball mitt from his hand, tossing it onto a pile of boxes, and planted a greasy paper bag onto the center table. "I see you've already started your lunch break."

He heaved himself upward and massaged a kink out of his neck. "How'd it go?"

"Eleanor Harper tried to get the indictment thrown out the window on the grounds that we've already arrested and attempted to convict _one_ person for the Chambers murder… You know, the usual spiel to make us look incompetent." Connie unpacked a few takeout boxes, two sets of utensils, and a handful of fortune cookies. "Don't worry—Judge Braden ruled in our favor. Our case against Audrey is solid."

"Don't be so sure," Mike grimaced, digging into the pot stickers with reckless abandon and pair of chopsticks. He gestured toward the slab of impaled concrete on the credenza. "Remember that case I told you about? Harper was the riding defense."

Connie hesitated before smiling mischievously. "Yes, _but_…this time, you've got _me _on your side."

"And they say that I'm the cocky one," he shot back.

Jack emerged from the side door with his black spectacles sitting near the tip of his nose. "Chan's Kitchen? Are we celebrating a victory?" He sat at the round table and pilfered an eggroll.

"Remand, pending trial," Connie beamed.

"I trust that you two understand that this case needs to be handled with the proper decorum."

Mike could hardly speak through a mouthful of food. "The same as any other case."

"Except that it's not any other case," Jack corrected. "You're dealing with the daughter of a family that holds considerable weight in the community, and I consider Sherman to be a friend."

Connie sensed that Mike was about to make a smart-aleck remark that would ignite an argument, so she quickly interjected, "Point taken. Kung Pao?"

"No, thank you." Jack rose from his chair and smoothed his tie. "I've got to save room for dinner—Rebecca's in town with the baby."

"I want a picture this time!" Connie called toward Jack's ebbing figure.

He gave a small wave as he disappeared into the corridor. A messenger knocked at the opposite door and dropped off an infamous blue tri-folded document. "Uh-oh." Connie quickly scanned the contents and groaned. "It's a motion to exclude Martha Muñiz's identification of Audrey Webb."

"Based on what?" Mike objected.

Connie read further and then closed her eyes in a state of incredulity. "Apparently this isn't the first time that Martha's come forward as a witness to a murder. Braden wants us in his chambers in an hour."

**…**

Mike Cutter was fuming. Connie stood silently to his left, observing the heated exchange between Mike and Eleanor Harper. She snuck a glance at Judge Braden, seated comfortably behind his desk. His eyebrows were drawn tightly in displeasure, and Connie had the feeling that by the end of the motion hearing, _someone _would be facing contempt.

"Your Honor," Mike reasoned, "Miss Muñiz was working in a shop across the street from the crime scene. She would have seen the vehicle coming out of the parking garage, and she had a clear view of the driver. There should be _no_ question about the validity of her statement."

"Crime scene units have not been employed to verify that such information could be acquired from the witness' location at the time of the murder. There is no proof-…"

"_People v. Kennon_. Forensic and/or logistical substantiation is not a requirement for an eyewitness account to be tenable." Mike silently thanked Westlaw and his Blackberry.

"So if a homeless man tells me that he can talk to God, I'm supposed to believe him? Please! Martha Muñiz is a compulsive opportunist," Eleanor countered, hardly containing the urge to roll her eyes. "She has an unscrupulous habit of lying about her knowledge of criminal activity in order to gain access to reward money. And, to add insult to injury, she did not approach the police until two days after the murder occurred. Her behavior is highly suspect."

Mike's neck was red with fury. "Oh, so now we solicit justice through egregious generalizations? Your Honor, Miss Muñiz did not initially come forward because she was afraid that the police would not believe her. And, with regard to her _habit_-…" he glared, "-…she called a Crime Stoppers line _one _time when she was _fourteen_. It was an _honest_ mistake."

"Mr. Cutter may be an expert judge of character," Eleanor retorted sarcastically, "but he conveniently forgot to mention Ms. Muñiz's second offense. Three years ago, she led the authorities on a wild goose chase that ended at a motel in New Jersey. She admitted to being under the influence of methamphetamines. There is no doubt that she was after the $750 reward in the interest of maintaining her…lifestyle. I have here the report from the Trenton Police Department."

Mike and Connie swapped bewildered and flustered glances. Lupo and Bernard had _not _mentioned anything about drugs or fraud. If there was one thing Mike hated, it was being made to look like a fool. Eleanor continued to spout her pompous opinion. "The way I see it, the Prosecution's star witness is either blind, delusional, or a liar. Any way you look at it, her testimony lacks credibility and is, therefore, inadmissible as evidence against my client."

"Your Honor, the People would like to request a continuance-…" Mike pleaded, desperately attempting to save the sinking ship.

Judge Braden folded his hands in front of him on the desk. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cutter, but I will not impede Ms. Webb's right to a speedy trial just because your detectives didn't do their homework. Frankly, I am inclined to agree with Ms. Harper. Your witness has a rather ignoble record, and her belated decision to contact the police only serves as a further blow to her reliability. Her statement is out. You can file an inclusionary motion if you find someone who can corroborate the identification."

"In that case, Your Honor, I move for a dismissal of all charges against my client based on insufficient evidence."

Mike had reached his boiling point, but Connie stopped him from saying anything he would regret with a gentle squeeze of his forearm. She immediately felt a flash of heat on her cheeks—what was _that_ about? Fortunately, no one had noticed the inappropriate gesture except Mike, who gazed at her fleetingly with a half-puzzled, half-tranquil expression.

"Don't be greedy, Ms. Harper," Judge Braden scolded. "The trial will convene next Monday at 9:00 am."

Welcoming the dissolution, Mike and Connie made a swift exit. They walked in silence, brooding over the unsatisfactory decision. Finally, Connie sighed and offered a few words of encouragement as they plodded down the marble staircase. "We're not completely screwed. We know that Audrey knew about the affair—or what she thought was an affair—and we've got her prints in the car. We've also got the phone call to her mother, and-…"

"It sounds even worse when you say it out loud," Mike protested.

Outside the Courthouse, the summer sun was bright and blinding. Regaining her sight, Connie spotted an unwelcomed visitor on a cell phone near the base of the stone steps. She failed to keep her negative reaction to herself and muttered, "What is _she _doing here?"

Mike eyed her quizzically. Clearly, he was not so averse to being in the presence of Bianca Peters. As they reached the sidewalk, Mike greeted her amiably. "Annie, what are you doing here?"

"What a coincidence. I was just calling you," she smiled. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I might steal you away for dinner."

In the neighborhood? Doing what? Lying in wait like a lioness hunting a gazelle? Looking for the inside scoop on a story to get the promotion that she didn't deserve? Connie prayed that her face did not reflect her urge to vomit. She then scolded herself for even _having_ the urge to vomit—just why exactly did this Bianca character elicit such an inimical response?

"I'm sorry, but… I can't. This isn't a good time. I have-… Well, _we _have a lot of work to do. I hope you understand," Mike apologized, nervously wringing the handle of his briefcase.

For a moment, Connie thought she saw a gleam of malice in Bianca's blue eyes. Whatever it was, it dissipated to a pout. "Oh, how disappointing! We simply _must _catch up, Michael. You work _so _hard…. You really ought to take some time for yourself—loosen that dreadful tie. Perhaps tomorrow night at eight o'clock? My place?"

Connie's eyes grew wide at the brazen attempt at seduction. She cleared her throat and announced, "I'm going to head back to the office. See you there?"

She tossed a sheared smile at Bianca and quickly fled the awkward situation. Within a few minutes, she reached the large gilded doors of Hogan Place. She had been so deep in thought, analyzing her feelings about the case and Mike's love life, that she could not recall how she'd arrived there. Hers was a dangerous profession. There was always a risk of becoming too emotionally involved with a case. No one had warned her about the risk of becoming too emotionally involved with a partner, however. She didn't want to admit it to anyone, least of all herself, but she felt threatened by the precipitous arrival of the woman that seemed to still have a place in Mike's life… in his heart. Especially since she thought that she and Mike might have… well, she wasn't sure _what _she thought.

Later that afternoon, Connie hunched over her desk, working on the witness list for the Webb case. She had purposely delved deep into an assignment so that Mike would not notice that she was avoiding him. Unfortunately, they had been colleagues long enough for Mike to detect that something was wrong. When it was nearly time to leave, he appeared in his doorway.

"Connie… can I see you in my office?"

His tone caught her off guard, and she furrowed her brow. "I'm…kind of in the middle of something. What is it?"

"This will only take a minute," he assured.

Connie sighed heavily and begrudgingly left her workstation. She stepped gingerly into Mike's office, and he closed the door behind her. The space was eerily silent and slightly suffocating.

"After what I witnessed today, I think we need to…clarify a few things."

She knew exactly where this conversation was going, and it made her squirm. She folded her arms over her chest and vainly attempted to look surprised. "What are you talking about?"

Mike smirked and perched himself on the arm of the couch. "I can infer that you see Bianca as just another dogged journalist, willing to do anything for a story."

"I don't think that!" Connie snapped defensively. "To be honest, I don't have an opinion on the matter."

"Well, opinion or not, I hope that you know that _we _are a united front, and I would never do anything to jeopardize a case… Regardless of my relationship with Bianca."

Connie's breath swelled in her throat. So there _was _something between them. Quashing the internal dialogue, she tried to appear unruffled, flatly replying, "Okay. Are we done here?"

Mike seemed dissatisfied with her response, but he abandoned the issue and moved over to the whiteboard hanging on the side door. "Not quite. I called Detective Lupo."

"I'm sure _that_ went well." Connie could only imagine the verbal assault Mike had unleashed on the detectives for missing such a key detail about Martha Muñiz.

"Martha's records from New Jersey were sealed."

"Sealed?" Connie frowned and moved closer. "Why?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. A 22-year-old city college kid gets collared for a meth-induced adventure and gets off scot-free?" Mike studied the notes he had scribbled across the board earlier that day.

"Someone is looking out for her…. But, who?"

"I don't know," Mike shrugged, quickly veering down a different path. "I find it hard to believe that on a crowded street, _no one _else saw the driver of the car that killed Jacinda Chambers."

A light bulb went off in Connie's head. She uncapped the black marker and began drawing a rough diagram of the area surrounding the crime scene. "There was a construction crew set up on Hubert the morning of the murder. If the car continued down Greenwich, it would've gone through the site… The entire intersection was blocked off—there was no other way out."

"How does that help us? There are no cameras to prove-…"

"No, but just past the construction zone…" she sketched out a building "…is another parking garage. The entrance faces Greenwich."

"Let's hope that the cameras show Audrey driving the car."

"I'll draft the subpoena for the tapes!" Connie could hardly contain her renewed exhilaration. She stopped in her tracks when Mike reached out and took hold of her hand that was still clinging to the marker. "Oh, right… You probably need this more than I do."

In reality, he didn't care about the pen. It was just an excuse to touch her… to recapture the connection that he feared was lost. He could level with her and give rise to tension; or he could persist in silence and wish for the best. Something foreign in him told him to tell her the truth. "Connie… There is nothing between Bianca and I… Not anymore. We had a brief involvement back at Hudson. After a year, she decided that she and I didn't share the same passion for Law. She was more interested in sentiment and shock value than fact and dogma. People grow apart, but some handle things better than others. Bianca's never been one to take 'no' for an answer."

Connie's mouth went dry. She appreciated how difficult it must have been for him to be so candid—he was such a reserved, quiet person.

"I don't want anything to change between us."

The office was overcome with a sweltering heat. Connie heard herself talking, but her rational part of her brain did not sanction the words. "Mike, I think we've reached a point that nothing could change how I feel. I mean-… how we feel… about working…together."

He was still clutching her hand. Her heart was pounding. Their eyes were linked by an invisible chain of attraction and awareness that was so unique to them. Connie willed her eyelids shut, fracturing the connection. "I… I have to get to work on the subpoena. You should call Captain Reischer and let him know that we're… back on track."

She retreated from the office, dizzy with anger at her indecorous behavior. Mike's phone beeped from his pocket, and he unenthusiastically read the message.

**The offer still stands. You know where to find me. –Annie**

**...**

**AN: **Will Mike meet up with Bianca? Will the Webb case survive? ;)


	6. Marching Down the Aisle

_**Here's What You Missed: **_The case took a turn, and Audrey Webb, the blushing-bride-to-be, was arrested for the murder of her wedding planner. Things were going smoothly until an eyewitness' testimony was tossed out, leaving Mike and Connie with an even bigger mystery to solve. Nothing seems to be adding up for the dynamic duo! Just who's protecting Martha Muñiz, who killed Jacinda Chambers, and why does Bianca Peters keep popping up?

* * *

><p><strong><strong>…*...*...<strong>  
><strong>

Saturdays at the DA's office were laid back. The boss was never there; the dress code went unenforced; and someone always pitched in for carbohydrate-laden breakfast. This Saturday was particularly uneventful, and as Connie dumped a packet of sugar into her coffee mug, she wondered why she had even bothered to come in. She stirred lazily and trancedly gazed out of the glass partition that separated the elevators and reception desk from the reference room. The encircling noise of an overworked fax machine, the symphony of ergonomic keyboards, and the periodic _ding!_ of arriving visitors and employees nearly lulled her to sleep. She yawned, glancing over at the belabored copier. It was only 10:15, but she was ready to call it a day. Her eyes throbbed slightly and began to water, tattling on her for staying up past midnight to finish the latest novel in her favorite series.

Hot liquid splashed onto Connie's hand, and she realized that she had never stopped stirring her coffee. She quickly grabbed a pile of napkins and attempted to halt the spill from spreading to the carpet. Movement from beyond the glass screen caught her eye and she glanced up briefly, then again, doing a double take. Mike had just arrived, garbed in dirt-stained baseball pants, a dingy blue and white jersey, and cleats. He lugged a large black gym bag down the corridor and into his office.

It was a majority opinion that the man looked good in a suit, but remarkably, he looked even better in dusty, soiled sports gear. Connie felt a blooming flush on her cheeks and quickly banished the unchaste thoughts from her mind. That earth-shattering (and regrettably neglected) moment in his office from a few days before had incited a terrible preoccupation with the possibility of a romantic involvement. However, the fact that she had no clue why Mike was wearing a baseball jersey to work put a giant gaping hole in her pipe dream. The disheartening truth was that after three years of working together, she really didn't know much about the elusive Mike Cutter. As she slogged to her desk, she realized that she could count the number of personal facts she knew about him on her one, free hand. The risible thought of having him fill out a survey brought an impudent smile to her lips. _What's your favorite color? Food? If you could be any animal, what would you be? Coke or Pepsi?_

"Yeah, _that's _not awkward," she mused aloud, gathering up a few important documents from her workstation and crossing the distance to Mike's closed door. She straightened her clothes—jeans and a fitted turquoise sweater—and knocked, before turning the handle and stepping inside.

"'Morning! I've got some bad ne-…" she trailed, seeing that Mike had just tugged off his dingy over-shirt, revealing a plain white t-shirt underneath. The jerked, fleeting motion exposed a plat of his lean, and surprisingly athletic, frame. Her train of cognition crashed and burned, and she gawked defenselessly, wholly captivated by the extempore and moderately embarrassing moment. Indulgence of woolgathering to get through a boring case brief was one thing, but this had gone entirely too far. Sighing and salivating over a supervisor—trying saying that ten times fast—was unacceptable behavior for a consummate professional in such an esteemed office. Connie rustled up a sentence, stammering, "-news. I'll…come back later."

"No, it's fine," Mike replied, focusing his attention on his laptop screen—presumably, an email. With an expression of concentration, he glanced up at Connie, completely oblivious to the reaction he had triggered. "Actually, I take that back. Is there food?"

"There might be a few lingering pastries," Connie arched her brow and slouched against the door frame. "What's with the outfit?"

"I coach Little League during the summer. Practice ran late. What were you saying? Bad news?" Mike sidled past her and hightailed it to the lackluster display of muffins and Danish in the conference room. Connie followed closely behind, struggling to focus on the task at hand. The thought of cutthroat EADA Mike Cutter teaching kids how to perfect line drives and evade foul balls was adorably disarming. Why had he never told her about his endearing extracurricular persona before? She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, hoping that the gesture would somehow push her internal dialogue to the background.

"Right. Bad news. Icon Parking sent copies of the security tapes from the North Greenwich garage to Lupo and Bernard-…" she paused. Mike had discovered the empty glass carafe sizzling away on the hot plate of the coffeemaker, and he was _not _amused. She switched the machine off and handed him her mug, from which she had yet to take a sip. Wordlessly, he accepted it and nodded in appreciation. Connie proceeded with her summary, "The entire stream of footage from 7:30 am to 8:00 am on the morning of the murder? Gone. It's dead air."

Mike sputtered.

"The official story is that there was a temporary outage among their surveillance systems in several structures across the city, _but _Lupo dug deeper and got the _actual _story." She introduced a photocopy of Icon Parking system maintenance logs. "All systems were a go, _except _the ones on Greenwich, 30th, and the FDR—a tidy little trail to the Long Island Expressway."

"That _almost_ seems like someone was trying to sneak back to Bridgehampton," Mike smirked, stating the obvious conclusion in a brassy manner.

"This was no crime of passion," Connie reached across him and grabbed a bran muffin. "It was calculated and well-executed, if you ask me."

"We just need to finalize our theory before the preliminary hearing on Monday—that's _if _Jack lets us go through with it. He won't be too happy about the sad state of our discovery index." They meandered to the hallway, munching on their mid-morning snacks.

Connie hesitated, her eyes lighting up with her latest _Eureka!_ "I have an idea."

****…*...*...**  
><strong>

Anita Van Buren opened her apartment door to find a friendly face standing in the hall. She smiled welcomingly and took a step back, signaling for her visitor to enter. "It's been too long, Counselor."

Connie chuckled, enveloping Anita in a one-armed hug. "Are the formalities really necessary?"

"Old habits die hard. Make yourself at home! Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, water?"

"Oh, no thanks! I'm fine." Connie accompanied Anita to the kitchenette, where they sat at the small circular table. She sighed deeply and regarded the older woman with warmth. "How are you?"

"All things considered, I'm hangin' in there. How are you? 'Holding down the fort?" Anita absently smoothed the scarf that was tied over her hair, a reminder that though she was in remission, she was still enduring a debilitating affliction.

"You know me: the perpetual keeper of the peace. Mike and Jack. Mike and Lupo. Mike and Bernard… Wow, I'm detecting a pattern." They shared knowing looks and muted, albeit wicked laughs.

"I believe it." Anita rose and retrieved a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water from the spigot on the freezer door. "So, you wanted to talk to me about Jacinda?"

"I'm sorry. I feel terrible putting you through this, but I just… I have a few questions. I wouldn't be here if Mike and I weren't at our wits' end." Connie nervously tapped her nails against the smooth surface of the table.

"Oh, it's quite alright… Are you forgetting what I did for 32 years? I'm the queen of inopportune procedure and protocol. Ask away!"

Connie knitted her brows in appreciation. "Dominique and Jacinda were still very close?"

"Well, after high school, they went off and did their own thing. You know, different crowds. Different aspirations. But yes… I'd say they were close. They kept in touch, especially when Jackie agreed to help with the wedding."

"Can you think of anything, anything at _all_, that might help us with Audrey Webb's motive?" Connie rubbed her forehead in frustration. "I would hate to drop the ball on this one, but in all honesty, our case… it's a complete mess."

"Jackie never mentioned anything about her other clients… not even to Dominique. If she was in trouble or if she was planning anything, she didn't tell anyone. Although," Anita gazed out the large bay window, "there was one thing that I thought was odd. She met up with Frank and I at the florist one afternoon, and she got a phone call. She seemed upset…almost paranoid."

Connie listened raptly. "Did you catch any names? Does anything stand out in your mind?"

"No, nothing—just that it was clear that she wasn't talking to a friend. It was urgent. I only caught the first part of the conversation. Something about a being late for a meeting? I'm trying to recall the name… "

Fishing a notepad out of her purse, Connie pressed further. "Could it have been 'James'? Or 'Celeste'? What about 'Sherman'? Or 'Martha'?"

"No," Anita shook her head. "I'm sorry, nothing is ringing a bell. I really wish I could help you."

Connie slumped in her chair, defeated and ready to give up. "I'm back to square one." Then, on second thought: "I'm sorry. I'm being completely insensitive. If anyone's in a rut, it's you. What are you and Frank going to do about the wedding? I can't even imagine what it's like to have such a special day taken away from you."

"You know, I had that special day once already, and look how it turned out for me…. So, if Frank and I have to get married in the cleaning supply closet at City Hall, I think I'd be okay with that."

Connie winced with empathy and remorse, recalling that Anita's first husband had put her through the ringer. She had been a woman scorned and humiliated, yet she seemed all the better for it. Her resolve was admirable and enviable. "Can I ask you something personal?"

"What the hell am I thinking getting married again?" Anita quipped with a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

Connie grinned. "Well, that isn't quite how I would've worded it, _but_… I mean, you had every reason to avoid getting close to anyone. What made you decide to try again? To let yourself be so vulnerable?"

Anita cupped her glass fondly, carefully considering her answer. "When you find the person that you are supposed to be with, you just…_know_. Sometimes, you have to take a few detours to get to that place, but when you do, you'll know. Even now, through all of this… I still believe that me and Frank are going to be alright." The clock above the stove ticked loudly in the ruminative silence. "What about you?"

"Me?" Connie scoffed. "I'm a realist. I spend half my time at the Courthouse, and the other half… it's split between sleeping, eating, Hallmark movie marathons, and Mike. I've considered renting out the couch in his office, because I see him more than I see my landlord."

"Is that so bad?"

"It's a catch-22. I don't want my job to be my life, but I also can't imagine my life _without _my job."

"I was talking about your partner," Anita arched her brow suggestively. "You've been here less than 15 minutes, and I can't even count how many times you've said his name. You two seemed awfully close at that little get-together in May."

Connie reddened at the observation. It was true… She always found herself thinking about him. Talking about him. She chewed her lip and rejected the idea with dissenting wave of her hand. "We're colleagues. Anything more than that is just... It's not an option." Finally, she had willed herself to say it aloud. Perhaps that would make it more finite. "You _know_ what kind of situation that would put me in. Besides, he has a type, and it's not me. In fact, I had the pleasure of meeting one of his bubbly, blonde college conquests. You've probably heard of her. Bianca Peters? The reporter from-…"

"Bianca?" Anita interrupted. The name appeared to have triggered a recollection. "You know, I'd completely forgotten about this, but a few weeks ago, we were supposed to take a look at the Midtown Loft. Jacinda canceled. She said something about an interview with a reporter from the _Ledger_."

Gaping in disbelief, Connie had to be sure. "Reporter... As in Bianca Peters?"

"Yes! I'm _positive_ that's the name I overheard."

**…*...*...**

Monday morning was the embodiment of muggy and stagnant. The sky was gray, suggesting a promise of rain, but the air was thick and stiflingly sticky. Summer in the city was the antithesis of the snow banks and icy patches that blanketed the sidewalks in the winter months. Connie stood near the entrance of the Courthouse with her cell phone in hand, waiting impatiently for Mike to arrive for the scheduled hearing. She spotted him emerging from one of the taxis that flanked the barriers lining Centre Street, and her stomach vaulted toward her chest in an unsanctioned flutter. He was not alone, however. A familiar figure shadowed him, pulling at the hem of her skirt as she slammed the car door. What the _hell _was he doing with Bianca?

As the pair ascended the steps, Connie clenched her jaw and fists, silently praying for the wherewithal to maintain composure.

"Good morning, Ms. Rubirosa," Bianca greeted unenthusiastically.

"'Morning," Connie muttered. "Mike? A word with you?"

"You read my mind," he placed his hand on her back and brusquely escorted her to a more secluded section of the portico.

"I have been trying to reach you all morning. Where have you _been_?" she hissed in a low register, not wanting to attract attention to their conversation.

"I'm sorry, I was busy prepping the witness that you summoned without telling me. Bianca called me yesterday, saying that the Detectives cornered her outside of her building. They were asking questions about Jacinda Chambers! Would you like to fill me in, preferably beginning with the part where you thought I would be okay with you amending the witness list without consulting me first?" The last time Connie had been on the receiving party of this particular Mike Cutter scowl, it had nearly ended their working relationship.

Not this time, though. Connie stood her ground. "I went to see Anita on Saturday afternoon. She told me that a week before the murder, Jacinda was on the phone with Bianca, and it _wasn't _a pleasant little chat about garter belts and cake toppers. It was an _uncanny_ coincidence and _highly _suspect behavior that warranted a more in-depth look. I took the liberty to-…"

"It wasn't _yours _to take, Connie. You were out of line!"

"Excuse me?" she gaped in affronted disbelief. "I'm following the _facts_, Mike. You, on the other hand, are allowing your personal inclinations to cloud your prosecutorial judgment! If this were _any_ other case, you would've had her arrested for obstruction of justice. Bianca never bothered to come forward, even though she _knew_ about the Webbs' arrangement with James Northam, _which _she knew about because Jacinda went to her looking for a deal! Unlimited access to inside information in exchange for a plug in the _Ledger_ and her 15 minutes of fame. Bianca knew about verbal threats made against Jacinda. She _knew _that Jacinda was terrified of Audrey's temper and her history of being unstable!"

"Are you _listening_ to yourself right now?" Mike paced impatiently. "Two seconds ago, her behavior was 'highly suspect', and _now _you trust her enough to put her on the stand?"

"Regardless of my distaste for professional scandal-mongers-..."

"Oh, that's clever," Mike retorted insincerely.

"…-Bianca's testimony is invaluable to our case."

"How? You're accomplishing _nothing _other than imbuing reasonable doubt and a complete lack of credibility. If Bianca goes on that stand, you think that Eleanor Harper won't manipulate and skew every word until _we _aren't even sure who was driving that car? You're way off base here, Connie. I don't know _what _you were thinking."

A slight breeze whipped through the arcade, splashing hair across Connie's disconcerted face. She brushed it away and studied Mike with resentment. "Your confidence in me is _so _reassuring."

She stormed past him, taking deep breaths to clear the red haze from her vision. Once she was on the third floor, she made a beeline for the courtroom. A gloating and unpalatable voice carried from the bench near the window, and Connie turned to see Bianca smiling smugly. "Good luck in there, today, Ms. Rubirosa. I'm so glad that I could be of assistance to you and Michael. I'm only sorry that I didn't have the courage to come forward sooner."

Connie did not take kindly to ridicule in sheep's clothing, and she snubbed the phony armistice, taking a few resolute steps toward her adversary. "Let's get one thing straight, Ms. Peters. I'm the one doling out the favors, here. The only reason you shirked an indictment for hindering prosecution is because your testimony today will help us put Jacinda Chambers' murderer away for a _very_ long time."

"You're _so _certain that this will go to trial," Bianca smirked mischievously. "Ambition is a virtue, but pride can be deadly. Be mindful of whom you tread upon in your incessant, _voracious_ quest for justice, Counselor."

What was _that _supposed to mean? Connie was not going to be snared into whatever mind game Bianca was attempting to employ. "I'll see you on the stand. Oh, and just a heads up: you're going to have to take an oath on the Bible... "

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry... I don't follow?" A look of perplexity contorted Bianca's soft features.

"I'm just making sure that bursting into flames won't be an issue."

Bianca's eyes darkened as the meaning of Connie's words slowly sunk in, and her lips tightened into a thin line. Feeling a guilty sense of satisfaction, Connie entered the courtroom and pushed through the wooden gate that separated the well from the gallery. She took a seat at the Prosecution's table, and Mike materialized in her peripheral vision a few moments later. In the suffocating friction that persisted from their disagreement outside, they silently awaited their fate.


	7. The First Dance

_**AN: **_I apologise for the ridiculously delayed update. Life sort of got crazy for me, and it never really felt like the right time to post. Thank you to everyone for the reviews, and thank you in advance to all those who continue to read!

_**Here's what you missed: **_A conveniently-timed power outage on the morning of the murder derails Mike and Connie's efforts to prove that Audrey Webb was driving the car that killed Jacinda Chambers. In a further turn of events, Connie finds out that Bianca Peters, her unofficial rival, has a surprising connection to the murder victim. She decides to use this to her advantage in a feat that Mike is none-too-happy about. Will her risky move cost them their only shot at Audrey?

* * *

><p><strong>~.~.~.~.~<strong>

In spite of the icy tension that hung like a cloud over the Prosecution table, the hearing was flowing smoothly. They had made it through the evidentiary index and the first three witnesses without incident, and Connie permitted herself a small sigh of relief. She observed raptly as Mike stood and approached the witness box, where Bianca Peters awaited. She could only hope that her last minute ploy to help them swing a trial would not backfire. Perhaps Mike had been right. Perhaps she _had_ made a rash decision. After all, Bianca's involvement did seem too good to be true. Yet, would a woman with Bianca's reputation toss her career down the drain to help out an ex-boyfriend? Furthermore, Lupo, Bernard, and Connie had gone through every aspect of Bianca's story with uncompromising scrutiny. The only legitimate criticisms that the Defense could mull over were Bianca's connection to Mike and her initial silence. But, if Mike couldn't handle _that _potential curveball, then maybe that First Chair didn't belong to him.

With a firm grip on her pen, Connie watched Mike take the first step into the quicksand. He casually flattened his neatly pressed tie against his crisp, collared shirt and suit jacket, a move that Connie knew was wholly apprehension. "Ms. Peters, could you please tell us how you came to know the deceased?"

Bianca had no expression on her face, and her answer was void of emotion. "Ms. Chambers contacted me and said that she had an inside story that I wasn't going to believe. In return, she asked that I recommend her services to the…how would you say… more _affluent_ members of Manhattan society. "

"So, in other words, Ms. Chambers wanted you to furnish a supply of wealthier clients?"

"It sounds awful when you put it that way," Bianca simpered. Mike shot her an admonishing scowl, and she instantly regained her poise. "Yes. Ms. Chambers was looking for notoriety and… a Louboutin in the door, so-to-speak."

Mike was not surprised by her impish response. Bianca had always known how to charm her audience, whether it was her readers or a half-filled courtroom. However, if she came on too strong or insincere, there was no guarantee that he would be able to navigate the damaged interrogation to safety. He had to be cautious and keep her on track. "What reason, if any, did you have to believe her? Isn't it possible that she was making the entire scenario up for money?"

"In my experience, there are two types of informants: the ones who tell you what will earn them the largest payout and the ones that speak the truth. Ms. Chambers was honest and forthcoming, and I sensed that she was deeply distressed by what she knew."

"Distressed?" Mike arched his brow and ceased his pacing.

"You must understand that she came from humble beginnings. The duplicitous nature of the Upper Crust—excuse me, the nature of a _majority _of them—was, well, a bit of culture shock."

"Every family has secrets. Why choose the Webbs in particular to expose? What made them a target?"

"Senator Webb and his wife had concocted a scheme that included paying off a man—an openly gay man—to marry their daughter so that they would no longer be burdened by her troubled and compromising behavior. The sham was to be kept a secret so that the Webbs' status in the philanthropic community would remain intact _and_ so that Mr. Northam's family could maintain the lifestyle to which they had become accustomed." Bianca calibrated her glasses to sit more squarely atop her nose. "Jacinda was disgusted by the agreement, and when the Senator made a pass at her, she decided that she could no longer keep quiet."

Connie glanced across the well, where Eleanor Harper shifted in her chair, temples twitching, fighting valiantly to suppress an eye roll. Mike continued, "Did Ms. Chambers offer any proof that her allegations were based on fact?"

"Yes… A well-documented record of all communications relating to the matter, including emails, telephone calls, and threats made against her."

"What kind of threats?" Mike feigned a lack of knowledge as a ploy to usher the interrogation in the desired direction.

"Ms. Chambers felt that her life was in danger. She received several menacing phone calls and text messages from the Senator's daughter."

"Audrey Webb?" Mike turned and gestured toward the mousy woman that was slouching in the Defendant's Chair.

"Yes."

Mike retrieved a paper from the table and flourished it dramatically. "The People's 23: an affidavit addressed to Ms. Peters and signed by the deceased. 'Do you know who you're dealing with? You will never get away with this.' 'If you run your mouth, you low-budget bitch, I will strangle you with the strand of pearls around your neck. You are nothing.' 'If my family goes down, you're coming with us.' Does any of this sound familiar, Ms. Peters?"

"Yes. Those are some of the messages that Ms. Chambers told me about."

"Do you recall who made these particular threats?"

"Audrey Webb."

Mike paused for a moment, a deliberate move that allowed the information to be fully assimilated by the judge. He folded his hands and allowed them to rest against his stomach, beginning his conclusion. "Did Ms. Chambers tell you why she didn't simply go to the police with her story?"

"Yes. When people of the Webbs' status are faced with the threat of a tell-all exposé or the prospect of time in jail, they will often choose the latter. It's a matter of pride. Jacinda felt that the only way to be _truly _heard was through a media outlet rather than legal intervention."

"Thank you." With a curt nod amidst a miniscule air of triumph, Mike returned to his seat. Connie braced for the rebuttal from the Defense. Three…two…

"_Ms. Peters_," Eleanor Harper swooped in like a vulture to road kill, "you stated that Ms. Chambers confessed to you that she feared for her life."

"Yes."

"Hmmm… It's to be expected, I suppose. Airing such _distinguished _dirty laundry could engender quite a few enemies. Audrey Webb was not the _only _person who faced humiliation over Ms. Chambers' accusations. Surely, my client was not the sole source of the minatory phone calls and e-mails. In fact, the very same list that Mr. Cutter so _eloquently_ read from includes intimidation tactics used by not just my client, but also her mother and father _and _her fiancé." Eleanor handed Bianca a copy of the affidavit. "Could you read that line right there to us? Yes, that one. Thank you."

Bianca cleared her throat and quoted, "'Mind your business and do the job that you've been paid to do. If you open your mouth to anyone about anything, it will be the last thing you do. You will never work in this town again.'"

"And could you please tell us whom that _lovely_ little gem came from?"

Bianca glanced at Mike nervously, and then back at the paper in her hands. "Celeste Webb."

"Thank you!" Eleanor yanked the document from Bianca's grip. "Ms. Peters, isn't it true that you did not inform the police of your affiliation with Jacinda Chambers until—let me check my notes—hmm, _yesterday_?"

Bianca fidgeted anxiously, and Mike eyed her carefully, praying that her squirming would go unnoticed by Judge Braden. "Yes… But, you see-…"

"Why _now_, Ms. Peters? What's in it for you?"

"The satisfaction of doing the right thing." Bianca's eyes narrowed, almost daring Eleanor to continue. "…Of putting petty status struggles to rest and playing my part as a human being to ensure justice, even if it were to mean sacrificing my job."

The seasoned attorney leaned casually against the railing that enclosed the witness stand. "You went to Hudson University, right?"

Connie knew that the subject was unavoidable, but how ruthless would Harper be? She stole a brief glimpse of Mike's reaction—a nearly undetectable mixture of tension and panic. He leaned against the arm of his chair with his elbow propped up and his chin resting in the frame of his fingers. Connie suddenly felt a surge of remorse. She had experienced the hell of having one's personal life put on display. But, she and Mike had discussed it before hand, and she was prepared. This time, she had no idea of what lie ahead. She felt nauseous with anticipation.

Bianca stammered. "Yes…"

"You were a Communications major?"

"I obtained a double major. I have a Masters in Journalism and an MFA in Creative Writing," Bianca stated proudly, giving a slight toss of her head so that her golden hair settled neatly against her back.

"But, _initially_, you were enrolled in Hudson Law School?"

"Yes."

"Those are two very different disciplines, Ms. Peters! What on earth made you change your mind?"

"My father was a senior prosecutor for the CPS in London. He was disappointed when I chose to move to the States, and naively, I thought I might win back his affection by following in his footsteps. But, his was a cerebral profession that ventured upon theatrical at times. I realized that it was not my calling."

"So it _wasn't _an attempt to avoid the sting of a nasty breakup?" Eleanor slyly alluded to her objective.

Bianca scoffed. "That couldn't be further from the truth!"

"You were at Hudson Law in 1993…" Eleanor adopted an exaggerated expression of realization. "Mr. Cutter was _also _a student in Hudson's Law school in 1993. That's quite a coincidence. It's a fairly small program. You two _must _have known each other."

Apprehension marred Bianca's reply. "We were… acquaintances."

"_Acquaintances_? Isn't it true that you and Mr. Cutter were in a relationship until you withdrew from the University in 1994?"

Following a very pregnant pause, Bianca ceded, "Yes."

"So, would you say that your history with Mr. Cutter has _nothing_ to do with your sudden altruism toward the DA's office? Perhaps, after all these years, you're still chasing down the one that got away, going so far as to _lie_-…!"

"I've heard enough, Ms. Harper. I'm ordering the witness to step down." Judge Braden did not look pleased. He glared across the bench, and ordered, "Sidebar, _now_!" Once all members of counsel had assembled in front of his perch, he covered the microphone and urged, "Mr. Cutter, you are aware that your actions have cast umbrage on these proceedings."

Mike moved to speak, but was cut off at once by Eleanor Harper's caviling. "Your Honor, my client deserves a _fair _trial. Mr. Cutter's indiscretions with the Prosecution's witness could hardly qualify as impartiality. I move for immediate dismissal-..."

Connie clung to the elevated wooden surface and fervently made her argument. "_I'm_ the one that called Ms. Peters to the stand. Mr. Cutter had no knowledge of her involvement until this morning. I _assure _you that there is no conflict of interest."

Braden appeared to be unmoved by her words. "Perhaps not on _your _part, but what about the witness? I will _not_ have my courtroom turned into a soap opera, and I must say, Ms. Rubirosa… This is all seems a little contrived."

"Her story checks out," Connie insisted. "We have documented evidence that backs up her statements, not to mention the fact that she took an infrangible oath today. Contrary to what the Defense is implying, Ms. Peters was _not_ bribed and she's _certainly_ not doing us any favors. We have done everything by the book, and there should be _no_ question of the witness' credibility."

"Except that her legs are wrapped around the lead prosecutor," Eleanor interjected. "My client does not feel comfortable being evaluated by an office that promotes fraternization."

"Your Honor?" Mike pleaded in exasperation, casually shoving one hand into his pocket and squeezing the bridge of his nose with the other.

In sharp contrast, Connie's reaction to Eleanor's allegation was colored with outrage. "The history of Mr. Cutter's personal conduct has _nothing _to do with the case at hand. Time and again, he has shown his dedication to justice through a consistent exhibition of the standards of professionalism and humanity that are essential to _any_ branch of Law. On the other hand, it seems that Ms. Harper's _modus operandi_ is to stonewall and cry foul all the way to her summation. She's more than welcome to scour through our personnel files if she _really _thinks it will help her case. Our office has nothing to hide, and frankly, we don't have the time to pay heed to pointless mudslinging."

"Ah, it looks like we've found the President of the Mike Cutter Fan Club," Eleanor observed dryly, procuring an icy pair of daggers from Connie's direction.

"_Enough_, Counselor." Judge Braden's admonishment was stern and laden with aggravation. "Another remark like that, and you can add a contempt citation to your catalog of accomplishments. All of you: go back to your seats. You've given me a lot to think about."

As they shuffled back to the table, Mike eyed Connie with sincere gratitude, verging on adoration. Her outburst had been unexpected and slightly inappropriate, but completely endearing. He whispered, "Thank you-..."

"I did it for the case," Connie countered sharply before he could finish his sentence. He seemed taken aback by her tone, and there was an awkward moment of cognizance and hesitation. She hadn't meant to sound so abrupt or scornful, but it was much easier to cope with uncertainty and uninvited emotion through aloofness. She had so quickly jumped to his defense—more or less toeing the bourns of perjury—when there was no guarantee that Mike was not once again embroiled in Bianca's crown jewels. Connie could only hope that nothing would blow up in her face. After all, wherever he had done his "witness prepping" with Bianca, it certainly hadn't been in his office. Her stomach churned once again.

If they did go to trial, that would mean that Bianca would remain in the picture, and Connie was unsure if she could remain objective and focused. Her working relationship with Mike was already suffering. How bad would things get? Scratch that—how childish would _she_ become? Would it escalate to spiteful looks, sulking, and door-slamming because Mike Cutter dared to have a life outside of the DA's office? Judge Braden's voice jolted Connie from her reflection and back to the present.

"I will have my decision by tomorrow morning. This hearing is adjourned."

**~.~.~.~.~**


End file.
